PROLOGUE
The sound of rain fills the evening sky. The setting sun, half-covered by gloomy clouds of a greyish-blue hue, seems to engulf the city in a sad, mournful, orange tinge. A gust of cold wind sweeps through as dusk slowly sets upon the inhabitants of this urban dwelling.
People. Trudging along, weary from a hectic day at work, a game of golf, a lack of caffeine, pass through the streets. Each is headed in his own direction, on his own path. Some move with more purpose than others. Some look forward to an eventful night with friends and family, indulging in some of Man’s favourite sins.
For them, another day has gone by. Some may stop to ponder: was it a day well spent? Was it a day full of meaning? Others are just relieved, even glad, that the ordeal known as the “working day” is now behind them. Another day, a new day, full of new and exciting opportunities, awaits.
Yet, some wander the streets with little motivation, no ambition, zero aspiration, minimal inspiration, and wonder about the meaning of their existence. Some wish that the night will forever remain young, for they dread the coming of a new dawn, a dawn that holds no meaning, no value whatsoever to them. A beer would probably prolong the night. Oh yes. Some alcohol would surely help.
“Hey buddy, u got a light?” i feel a tug at my coat tail and a raspy voice call out, snapping me out of my philosophical reverie. I spin on one heel and turn a full 180 degrees. Standing in front of me, a man in his late 30s, disheveled, shivering in cold, armed with nothing but a cheap substitute for a fur coat to combat this ghastly weather. In his left hand, he carries a bottle of stout. His right hand, previously used to tug at my coat, now holds a cigarette. He has a tired, almost dead look in his eyes. I could have been looking at a walking cadaver.
I pull out my lighter from my chest pocket, a vintage post-WWI collector’s item, made in 1920. The first of its kind. I hand it over to him. He doesn’t thank me and lights up immediately. His hands are shaking visibly, either from the extreme cold or from the effects of alcohol.
He takes a long drag of his cancer stick and returns me my prized lighter. For the first time, he makes eye contact with me.
John Trevor. 36 years old. Has been unemployed for almost 6 months. Fell heavily in debt 2 months ago from obsessive gambling. Used to own an apartment down the street. Landlord chased him out after loan sharks vandalized the entire 4th floor. Presently homeless. His eyes tell me that he is desperate, sad, lonely.
Another one hits rock bottom, i muse to myself.
“Hey John.”
His eyes widen, surprised at the fact that a complete stranger just had called out his name. His eyes scan his cheap coat, his torn working jeans, his worn-out sneakers, wondering if there was a nametag or any form of identification on him that had given his identity away.
After a while, he gives up searching. He looks at me suspiciously, his eyes focused, very much unlike a drunk.
“Who are you? How do you know my name?” He asks. I can feel the fear slowly creeping into his trembling voice. The only thing preventing him from running away, screaming in full-blown hysterics was probably the fact that i looked too smartly dressed to be a loan shark.
“Just a friend, John. Just a friend.” The man seems unconvinced, and starts to raise his voice, hoping to intimidate me, to instill some fear in me so as to facilitate his interrogation. However, he fails to realise that him, as the intimidator, is becoming increasingly intimidated. He demands to know my name, but of course i keep my silence.
“I asked you who the hell are you, you son of a *****!” He gestures aggressively at me. People around him start staring, pointing fingers. I can hear their hushed voices whisper “what is that drunk bastard doing? Who does he think he is talking to?”
He hears them too. By now he realises that he is the only one who can see me. He stares at his lighted cigarette to discover that he cannot use the word “lighted” to describe its state now. He turns to run but promptly blacks out. Out of fear? Out of panic? Out of shock? He does not know. Probably a combination of all three.
**************
“John, wake up.”
His reaction is instantaneous, he jolts wide awake, all traces of his drunken stupor suddenly absent. He tries to get up from the ground, but he realises that he cannot move any of his limbs. Or any part of his body, save his eyes and neck.
His eyes frantically dart left right left right as he surveys his surroundings, trying to make sense of it all. Nothing has changed, he is still on the cobbled street in the middle of the city, but no one else is around. The air is still and quiet, but he cannot feel the biting cold of the autumn wind. For now. His eyes find me, sitting very close to him.
“where am i? And you haven’t answered my question god damn it! Who the hell are you?”
“I told you, John. I’m a friend, and friends are here to help.”
“Holy shit! Are you jigsaw?” I register whatever he just said, and promptly burst into shrieking laughter. I cannot believe the utter silliness of his comment. This could take a very long time.
I compose myself and wipe tears from my eyes, even as he keeps shouting “hey stop laughing god damn it!” He tries to move, but realises that he is still being held by invisible binds. I personally would prefer talking to him face to face, instead of literally looking down at him, but i have to prevent him from trying to run away. Obviously he cannot move out of this place at all, but based on experience, trying to sell someone an idea while chasing after him can be quite a tiresome affair.
“Do you believe in God, John?” I ask suddenly. The mood becomes solemn, sombre, even John falls silent, thoughtful even and forgets his quest to know my name.
“What business is it of yours?” He asks, just as suddenly. Anger is written all over his eyes, as though i have just offended him with my question, which was never meant to be offensive in any way.
“You look sad, John. Sad and lost. Lonely. You don’t look like you have a purpose in life. I’ve met many people. Many people, who, like you, once hit the lowest point of their lives.”
He doesn’t say anything, so i presume that he’s letting me continue.
“So many of them, John. Just like you. Just that few inches from the brink. Just so near Despair, just so so close to relinquishing all hope on life. So what does this have to do with God, you may ask. Because these people believe in their God, they still have that fire, that faith in their eyes, however little. This faith is what keeps them from totally giving in to their suicidal tendencies. For them, their faith in their religion keeps them alive.”
“you look like you don’t want to live but don’t want to die either. So which is it, John? Do you believe in God?”
I let him digest my little speech. He pauses to think and then lets out a sigh.
“God may exist. But i do not believe in him. Not anymore. Given up on him a long time ago.”
“Why is that?”
“Because god is NEVER there when you need him. Never. When you’re down on your luck, he never shows up to save you. I know, I know. God isn’t some miracle entity, not some tool to save you. He can’t be there to save everybody. But why does he not even give a sign or even point me in the right direction? I went to church every Sunday, i lived an honest life, did an honest business. I daresay that i was a devout believer. All these, for what? When the chips are down, where is God? Can’t he even give me a hint, some clue and tell me where to go? What was all that faith for? So that he’ll bless you. Do i feel blessed now? No.. Hell no..”
He starts breaking down. Tears start welling up in his eyes, as Pain starts attacking his heart.
In between sobs, he tells me how he was a successful businessman with a beautiful wife, darling children, a huge mansion in the countryside and all. He tells me how he felt that he owed part of his success to God for it was God who gave him the blessings.
He also tells me how he was swindled of his money through investments in a dud oil company and how his family eventually left him for greener pastures, after further investments at the racecourses failed to reap any benefits at all. He tells me how his life fell apart, and how reconstruction wasn’t plausible, even with the aid of nicotine and booze. He tells me how he wished at times, that all was well again, that he would eventually wake up from this nightmare to a sunny morning, complete with breakfast in bed.
He starts sobbing. I permit the use of his hands to wipe his tears off. Tears of sorrow, of regret, of despair. Close to tipping point, i note.
I ask him suddenly, “Do u believe in the Devil then?” His eyes focus again, this time with less apprehension. He turns his head to me and stares straight into my eyes.
“If there is a God, then there is a Devil.” He replies with much conviction.
“Good. Den i have a business proposition for you.” He raises one eyebrow in a classic look of incredulity.
“Business? Who the hell are you, anyway?” Ah crap, not the whole identity issue again, i think, frustrated. Someday, I am going to find myself a believable personna, with less of those ‘unlighted cigarette’ special effects.
“Okay before you interrupt me, let me explain this BUSINESS deal. After I’m done, you can ask me whatever you like. Deal?” He thinks for a while and finally agrees. But obviously, it will not go to that stage.
“here i have a contract.” I pull out an aged-looking piece of parchment from nowhere. He starts to talk, but i cut him short. Later.
“i have a contract. Right here with me.” I do not wait for him to make any comment, and proceed to explain further, keeping count of the number of times i have been repeating this speech. JohnTravor would be number 9116.
“I have a contract here. In it, you will find 66 clauses. Very much like the terms-and-conditions thing u see in everyday business contracts. Pay close attention to clauses 1, 5, 13, 22, 36, 37, 49, 52 and 66. These are the ones that i think will be of greater concern and interest to you. Read the clauses in numerical order, especially the first and the last.
I permit the full use of his entire body. Now that i have gotten his full attention, there wouldn’t be any need to restraint him. I hand him the piece of papyrus. He stares at it intently for a few minutes, occasionally scowling and frowning as his eyes scan through each of the clauses. For a full quarter of an hour, he does not speak, and quietly reads the content of the scroll, very much like an attorney verifying a will.
He looks up at me when he is done with the scrutinizing.
“Any questions?” I ask, aware that there would definitely be this single, eye-brow raising clause. I make a mental note to definitely review the phrasing and choice of words someday.
“Obviously there are questions,” he replies, his voice somewhat dripping with sarcasm, “no self-respecting businessman doesn’t find ‘questionable’ terms and conditions in a contract.” He speaks as if from experience, then i remember his investment in the dud oil company.
He starts reciting a clause out loud:
“This Agreement, along with any exhibits, appendices, addendums, schedules, and amendments hereto, encompasses the entire agreement of the parties, and supersedes all previous understandings and agreements between the Parties, whether oral or written. The parties hereby acknowledge and represent, by imprinting a Mark of Life and on the beneficiary’s part, by contributing a Fract of Being hereto, that said parties have not relied on any representation, assertion, guarantee, warranty, collateral contract or other assurance, except those set out in this Agreement, made by or on behalf of any other party or any other person or entity whatsoever, prior to the execution of this Agreement. The parties hereby waive all rights and remedies, at law or in equity, arising or which may arise as the result of a party’s reliance on such representation, assertion, guarantee, warranty, collateral contract or other assurance, provided that nothing herein contained shall be construed as a restriction or limitation of said party’s right to remedies associated with the gross negligence…”
“…willful misconduct of fraud of any person or party taking place prior to, or contemporaneously with, the execution of this Agreement,” I finish for him, for the 9116th time.
“Isn’t this just an ordinary Entire Agreement clause? Or do you call it Integration Clause or Merger Clause? I think the terminology used varies from nation to nation.”
“Of course i know an agreement clause when i see one. Anyone will. But that’s not the question.”
“What is?”
“Well, firstly it looks like it’s lifted off Wikipedia. No one uses such terminology anymore.”
“From where i come from, there aren’t any lawyers, so perhaps plagiarism is part of the inevitable when trying to sound professional, but that’s not your real question.”
“No it isn’t, it’s just something that bugs me. Anyway, what the hell do you mean by “Mark of Life” and Fract of Being? If i remember correctly, It was something along the lines of “affixing hands and seals hereto.”
“ah that part. Mark of Life simply means blood. Would you not agree that blood gives birth to our very physical existence, that it is a symbol of Life?”
“Don’t get all philosophical on me, Horatio,” he snaps, irritated, “So how do i imprint a Mark of Life? By giving you my blood? Like some damn occult?”
“No. Not ALL your blood. As a sign that you are in complete agreement with the contract, you leave one drop of blood, no more, no less, on the bottom of the scroll.”
“Fair enough. What about Fract of Being?”
“Fract of Being is short for Fraction of Being. That which is a part of our non-physical existence, that gives birth to our being.”
“can you stop the philosophical mumbo-jumbo? What exactly is the Fraction of Being?”
I look at him straight in the eyes and say plainly, “Your Soul. To fully mark the contract valid, the beneficiary, you, must hand over to me, your soul.”
He stares once again, dumbstruck, his mouth gaping wide, looking as though I just told him he was going to die. It is obvious that he has problems defying his faith, his religion. I ponder for a moment the strange emphasis on ‘Soul’ as a very crucial part of one’s existence across the various religions. I recall vaguely a Chinese warlord who preached to me the importance of a soul in Buddhist teachings before flatly refusing to take up my offer.
I watch him struggle with himself. After a while, he swallows hard and starts speaking, very slowly, trying hard not to let fear and shock get to him.
“My Soul? All of it?”
“Yes, all of it. In case you were wondering, your soul is a fraction of your being. Just a very big fraction.”
“and i have to give it Now?”
I chuckle in disbelief. “No, not now. If you read clause 46 again, i think it says “representative to collect contributions upon the contract’s expiry, after it has been declared null and void.” Ambiguous, i admit, but i means that your soul will be claimed only after the contract expires and this contract expires when you die.”
His eyes turn away, as if deep in thought. He doesn’t speak for at least a minute. I do not speak either, and allow him time to consider his decision. After all, this battle of his inner angels and demons is crucial to my task, and i have learnt from experience that any form of interference or interruption to his train of thought is highly unrecommended.
He reads the scroll again, this time paying very close attention to the text, but he does not ask me further questions regarding the contract.
For a second time,he looks up from the scroll at me and asks, “Will i feel anything after i die, spiritually? Will there be pain when my soul is being, erm extracted?”
i laugh at the ludicrous question. With everything that is at stake, he’s only bothered about PAIN?
“No, my friend. It isn’t such a crude process. No ripping-out-your-soul agony. A painless process.” I assure him. However, i can still feel the tension, the uncertainty in his eyes. I wait for him to ask further.
“And after i sign the contract, i can ask for my terms and conditions? My benefits? Anything i want?”
“yes, anything you desire, whether material or intangible. Anything that can be thought of in your mortal world. Use your imagination.”
At this point in time, i can feel the wheels and cogs in his head moving, as he contemplates the possibilities. His eyes light up as his imagination takes him farther and farther away from reality. Greed will forever be the root cause of Man’s downfall, i tell myself.
“i can have anything at all? Anything?” he asks again.
“Anything,” i repeat, “in exchange for a drop of your blood. And your soul.”
He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. When he opens them again, i do not see fear or uncertainty reflected. Nothing seems out of the ordinary to him anymore.
“I have nothing to lose and all to gain. I accept this agreement,” he declares.
“Good, now as customary protocol, hold out your left hand.” He sticks out his left hand, palm face up. I place my left index finger over his index finger. I simulate a small scratching movement and a small trace of blood appears where the skin on his digit momentarily tears open. He doesn’t wince.
“Now hold it over the scroll,” i instructed. His hand moves to hover over the scroll and one drop of fresh blood falls, seemingly in slow motion, to it. The drop immediately dries and leaves an imprint, as though it was wax-stamped onto the piece of parchment. I roll up the contract and put it back in my coat.
“Now it is complete. Tell me your wishes and they will be fulfilled.”
“i don’t have to swear an oath or anything to declare that my soul is to be exchanged when i die?”
“no, that part’s already covered with the drop of blood. When you die, i will appear before you once again.”
“i see. My desires. Am i allowed time to think about it?”
“you are, within this realm of space. Take as long as you wish, and be as concise as you want.”
“according to clause 43, i am allowed as many wishes as i want before i break contact?”
“that is true. You can ask for anything, any amount, and when you are finally satisfied, Say “I am Satisfied” and i will make the necessary arrangements to break this realm.. You will return the to same place where u first met me. And you will have to make your way to this building at 66 avenue, down South End. It’s called iRECULF industries. Tell the receptionist your full name and your wishes will be fulfilled.”
“Wait wait wait. I have a query” he says. I can feel the slight anxiety in his voice. “Giving up my soul in exchange for benefits. Is this considered ‘Selling my Soul?’”
“why would that be considered selling?” i ask, “the value of your soul cannot be measured in mundane, physical quantities, such as money.” In fact, a person’s soul is practically invaluable. Priceless, i add to myself.
“Think of it as a trade,” I say, and put a fake smile on my face to reassure him.
“Alright. So when i just have to visit this company called iRECULF at 66 Avenue and tell the receptionist my name. And everything will proceed from there till i get my wishes?”
“that is correct. But depending on the nature of your wishes, and considering factors such as feasibility and implementation time, it may take up to a few years before you finally achieve what you asked for. But anything that has the potential to help you on your path will most definitely work in your favour.”
“that’s taking ambiguity a little too far for comfort.”
“Have no doubts, you will see the results soon enough.”
He then proceeds to tell me his wishes. He takes a good 30 minutes listing out all his demands. And finally, he says “Okay, I am satisfied.”
“alright, good. Now at the clap of my hands, this realm shall break.” I see him roll his eyes mockingly.
“Yes, i know, it’s cliché. But i assure you, it’s not a magic trick. Anyway where was I? oh. At the clap of my hands, this realm shall break. From then onwards, the contract shall be deemed, for want of a better term, ‘OPERATIONAL.’ Pleasure doing business with you, John. Have a good life ahead.”
I raise both hands to face-level and proceed to put them together to create a soft smacking sound.
“Wait!”
“yes? Any questions?”
“I know I don’t get any reward or any merit points for this, but i need to confirm something..”
“and that would be?”
“Your identity. Asking me for my soul as part of a contract – you’re the devil, aren’t you?”
I laugh. “No I’m not.”
“Den who the hell are you?”
“Just a friend, John Travor. Just a friend.”
CLAP.
-lifted from the bestselling “Dear Diablo..”
by Lymonade Slim
(lol ok so this is some story i was working on a couple of months ago. but my interest is waning. still drafting the ideas for chapter 1. hopefully i can make a book out of it =P srry for limited vocab/grammar.)
